Wrong Reflection

Not Forgiveness, But Understanding

Alfred was furious with Sam.

He hadn't answered the question, but his response after Alfred asked whether he had killed a personification with his bare hands had been an answer enough.

Alfred quickly left after that, unwilling—he didn't want to think about it, about agreeing to kill Gilbert, about killing another personification.

He didn't want to think about why his counterpart could have done something like that.

Alfred knew that he and his counterpart had both done terrible things, but that—that was a line that Alfred never thought he would cross.

How many times did his counterpart cross it?

It was a nauseating thought; one Alfred hated lingering on. He had...he had liked Sam. Sam was funny, kind, even with all the stress and confusion.

The other were nice as well. Lydia was sweet, James was protective, and had decided that Alfred would be another person he protected. Alfred hadn't (knowingly) met any of the others, but from what he had heard, they were nice people.

But how nice could they be if they let Sam kill other personifications?

Alfred wasn't innocent. He had blood on his hands, but killing personifications had always been a taboo amongst him and the personifications here. At the end of the day, they were the only ones of their kind that any of them had, and very few of them were eager to lose each other, no matter how brightly hatred burned.

So Alfred was mad at Sam and refused to be in the same room as the other man. Sam didn't push it, something that Alfred was grateful for. At least he could do something decent.

Alfred was even more eager for Arthur and the others to find Sam a way home because then Sam could go back to his stupid personification-killing dimension, and Alfred wouldn't have to talk to him ever again.

"Al, can I talk to you?"

Alfred's eyes snapped to the door to see his brother standing there, looking nervous. Alfred nodded, handing Matthew the other controller to the game, inviting him to join. Matthew took the controller but didn't join the game.

"You need to talk to Sam."

"No," Alfred said quickly, angrily mashing the buttons on his controller and trying to keep himself from smashing it.

"You can't be mad at him forever," Matthew said, his voice gentle.

"Try me," Alfred said, voice angry, angrier than he had been in a long time.

"Al, he...Sam was having a panic attack when you left," Matthew said. Alfred was still angry, but he kept his mouth shut, eager to know where this was going. "And then James took control. He said that the question had been a trigger for Sam. Even if Sam did do that, he clearly feels bad about it."

"But he still did it," Alfred said, hating how his voice cracked a little. "I can't...Mattie, how am I supposed to forgive that."

"You don't have to forgive him. I think you should hear him out. James said that he would explain things if you wanted to know," Matthew suggested.

"Fine. I'll listen to him. But that doesn't mean I have to talk to him after this," Alfred said. Matthew sighed.

"Well, at least it's something," Matthew said. Alfred frowned.

"Why do you want to defend him?" he asked.

"Because from everything I have learned, things are really, really different there. And I...I don't think it's fair to judge Sam by the standards of our world when things are different. And the panic attack...he feels strongly about it, and not in a good way. Plus, we're the only people he has here. We can't just abandon him based on something that he didn't get to explain," Matthew said. Alfred squeezed his controller a bit tighter, shattering it, before sighing.

"You're right," Alfred said, "Let's get this over with."

Alfred threw the broken controller away before walking down to the living room where Sam was. Sam had a book in his hands, but he wasn't reading it, instead staring forward and whispering to hi—to the others.

"Hey, Sam," Alfred said. Sam smiled sadly.

"It's James. America didn't want to risk being triggered if you asked about it again," James said. Alfred crossed his arms. He wanted to know why Sam had done it, why he had made those choices, not what another thought of it.

But at the same time, Alfred knew he couldn't force Sam to talk to him and decided to extend the same courtesy to Sam that had been extended to him.

"Did he actually—"

"Yes. He has. He hates it just as much as you do, not like some others from our world who gladly kill those they see as beneath them. But..."

"But what? He did it, but he feels bad, so is it all okay?" Alfred asked, unable to stop his voice from growing snappy.

"He was coerced into it—forced to do it both times. I know you have every right to be upset, but I have spent a long time trying to show America that it wasn't his fault, and I won't have you undo it because you're too stubborn to listen!" James snapped, sounding angry, as he stood up, letting the book fall to the floor.

"Forced?" Matthew asked, horror in his voice. Alfred's anger calmed some at that as well.

Who would force Sam to do that?

"One of them was his daughter. New England Confederation. Sam loved her more than life itself. It broke him when...when he was forced to execute her. He's never been the same. Your question brings back those memories," James said, sounding so—so mournful.

Alfred began to feel angry again but for a different reason now.

"Someone made Sam kill his own daughter? But—the New England Confederation would have dissolved and died on her own, right?" Alfred asked. James nodded.

"She would've. She—if she had been allowed to live, she would have died a few days later. But he didn't care about that. He wanted to teach America a lesson. So..." James trailed off, tears in his eyes. Alfred felt sick now. No wonder that was a trigger. No wonder Sam had a panic attack.

Alfred felt guilty. He had been a massive jerk about everything.

"I'm sorry," he said, but James shook his head.

"You're within your right to be angry. I just...you needed to know that America has been living with that regret haunting him for years. I couldn't let you blame him for that. You don't have to be happy about it, but you should know," James said, a heavy weight to his voice before he sighed. "There is a profound difference between taking their life with your own hands and letting the government do it for you. America has threatened the lives of others; he has been involved in the political dissolutions of even more, but he had never taken a life by his own hands willingly."

"Who made him?" Matthew asked. James scoffed.

"The same person who hurt us our entire lives," he said, bitter amusement in his voice. Alfred felt a creeping dread grow in his stomach, the suspicion that he knew who that person was.

"Was it..." he began before trailing off, not wanting to say the words. James' expression turned bitter.

"I don't want to talk about it anymore. Who it is doesn't matter. He can't hurt us anymore," James said before hugging himself as if he were trying to hug everyone he shared a body with. Alfred was suddenly stricken by how tired he looked, how bags hung under his eyes.

"You should get some sleep," Alfred said, voice softer. James smiled.

"I will, thank you. For being willing to listen. It means more to us than you know."

Alfred did his best to smile back, still feeling guilt and horror dance within him.

Dear God, why did Sam want to go back to his world if it was that terrible?

Alfred knew why, the states, the other children Sam had there, but...it sounded miserable.

Alfred had never been more grateful that his dimension was the way it was. He didn't think he could survive there.